Have Your Cake and Eat It Too
by c-r-roberts
Summary: "Don't look now but Peeta Mellark is totally staring at you." Leave it to Delly Cartwright to take us right back to the cafeteria of D12 High. I slosh back a gulp of beer and Leevy wrinkles her nose. "Should she care? He's thirty pounds overweight and he's barely friends with anyone anymore." Then she smiles mischievously. "Although, he is pretty much eye fucking you right now."


_A/N:_ _This is what happens when I'm prompted to write the "craziest Peeta AU I can think of." And yes, there's smut._

* * *

><p>Cake. That's what I'm supposed to bring to Gale's 21st birthday party. Lame, I know. But Madge had insisted <em>it's not a birthday party without cake<em>. And it's not as if I'm able to pick up the keg anyway. So cake it is.

My two hour drive home from campus went smoothly, but I'm anxious to get home and see my mom and Prim before heading over to Gale's house in a few hours. So I'm not particularly excited to stop at District 12's bakery on my way through town. The tiny business district looks just as I left it, although it's a warmer than average February day, and the snow that's accumulated has turned into the slushy, dirty kind that makes the streets look gray. But since I don't make it back until late afternoon, I score a great parking spot because Mellark's Bakery is practically deserted at this time of day.

I run inside quickly, and it takes me a few seconds to notice that something feels different about the bakery. I'm all alone at first as I step up to the unstaffed counter, which isn't unusual because it's a small family-run business, and there's probably only one or two people working. They're probably prepping in the back for tomorrow. So while I wait to be helped, I try to figure out what's different, wondering if the sign on the wall behind the counter is new, or if they've changed the paint color. But it's been a while since I've been inside so it's difficult to pinpoint.

The difference becomes easy to spot when it's not the kind-faced Mr. Mellark who breezes through the kitchen door but his youngest son, Peeta. And I swear the quizzical look that crosses my face at the sight of him is because I'm not expecting to see him here and not because he looks significantly different from how I remember him.

He's put on weight. I'm not passing judgment, I'm really not, but it's a little jarring to see Peeta as someone other than the broad shouldered, muscular wrestler he was in high school. He's not obscenely heavy in a _he probably needs to have his pants specially made _type of way_, _but the difference is noticeable—in the belly that protrudes over his waist from behind his white bakery apron, and in his arms, once incredibly toned to the point of admiration, which are now softer and thicker. And his face is rounder, with a pinkness to his cheeks that suggests a constant flush. But he's still handsome. Though I'm not sure anything could change me thinking that about him.

His blue eyes are also unmistakable. So is the split second of self-consciousness that crosses them when he sees me. But it passes instantly, and he smiles at me from behind the counter. It's a true, genuine smile, and it makes him feel familiar again.

Not that I really knew Peeta all that well, but we'd grown up together. And we'd shared the same circle of friends. But while we were friendly, we weren't best friends or anything.

Though I guess I'd been paying enough attention to notice those broad shoulders and blue eyes.

"Hey, Katniss."

"Peeta?" I blurt out his name like it's a question rather than the statement I'd meant it to be. I shake my head, embarrassed. "I thought you were still at Panem State?" It's a random weekend in February, and since I'm only home to celebrate Gale's birthday, unless Peeta's making 3 hour treks to work weekends at his family's bakery, nothing about him being here makes any sense.

Peeta pauses with a slight twist to his face, biting down on his bottom lip before turning it back up into a small smile. He shrugs. "I uh, run the bakery now."

I cringe, realizing my mistake before he finishes his sentence. How could I have forgotten? Peeta's dad. He passed away last spring.

I'd heard he'd died of a sudden heart attack. A lot of people came back for the funeral. I hadn't been one of them. I'd had an out of state track meet that day and I couldn't make it. At the time, I'd felt relieved, because there's nothing worse than attending a funeral. But now, seeing Peeta again, I feel guilty.

My throat goes dry, and I want to tell him that I'm sorry, and that his dad seemed like a great guy. And that I'm sorry for not making it to the funeral. I want to tell him that losing a dad is a painful, debilitating experience and that I wish I could say it eventually gets easier. But it doesn't. It just hurts a little less after a while.

But he speaks before I muster any words. "You're here for the cake, right?"

Peeta knows Gale and I are friends. He probably also knows there'd been a time in high school when we were more than friends, but that phase of my life is long over.

I must still look surprised by his question because Peeta explains that Rory, Gale's younger brother, works part time at the bakery. I remember Gale mentioning that to me now. Then Peeta shrugs. "And uh, Gale and I actually have a class together this semester too."

That, Gale hadn't mentioned to me. Though I guess with the conversations I have with Gale growing fewer and farther between as college takes us further apart, the topic of Peeta Mellark isn't exactly one I'd expect to come up.

I nod, confirming I am, in fact, here for the cake. "Are you going to the party?" I ask, watching him with his back turned to me as he begins fashioning a box out of one of the flimsy pieces of cardboard he pulled from beneath the counter. I study the way the thin cotton of his shirt pulls with his movements and how the tie of his apron cuts into his back just slightly. I feel weird for being so intrigued, but I can't help but think that he carries his extra weight well.

"I may stop by," he says casually.

"You should come." I don't know what's prompting me to be friendly with Peeta—it's not my usual course of action with most people. Is it because I feel sorry for him? Because I know what it's like to lose a father? Or is it that he's somehow less intimidating a couple of years removed from his _Most Popular_ title and with a few extra pounds to his frame?

Or maybe I just think it would actually be nice to see him.

Peeta turns back to me, placing the boxed cake on the counter, showing it to me for my approval before closing it up. His lips quirk upward with the pull of a small smile. "Well. Now that I know that you'll be there, I'd say the chances are better."

I smile too, fighting a blush. "Good."

Then I try to the pay for the cake and Peeta doesn't let me, proclaiming it's his gift to the birthday boy. I sigh, but I know it's no use because according to him, _my money's no good here_.

He smiles as I scoop up the cake, and I feel oddly defeated yet victorious at the same time. "I'll see you later," I call over my shoulder as I head out the door, not waiting for his response.

* * *

><p>Gale's party doesn't start until nine, but I'm there at eight to help set up. I wear a simple fitted hunter green sweater with dark jeans and riding boots, which is more than acceptable for a birthday party spent in the basement of Gale's rental house he shares with Thom Calloway before we head out to The Hob, a local college bar.<p>

Madge, Gale's girlfriend of a six months now, takes the cake from me and sets it up on a table with bowls of Doritos and pretzels. I like Madge. We were friends in high school, we're still friends now, and I think she's good for Gale. But once in a while, she'll do or say something that makes me side eye her. Hard.

Which is what happens when she rolls her eyes at the buttercream frosted cake, sighing. "Thanks for picking it up. Although I guess you didn't have to since the baker himself is going to be in attendance now." I quirk a brow, and Madge shrugs like she's being inconvenienced. "Gale said Peeta texted him an hour or so ago. He's coming over."

It takes me a second to realize what her problem is. Peeta is her ex-boyfriend.

She keeps talking when I don't have anything to add. "I know there will be plenty of other people here, and it's mean of me to not want him to come because he doesn't get out that much these days, but I don't want tonight to be weird." Madge lowers her voice then, even though there's absolutely no one else around. "Sometimes I worry that he's still not over me."

I bite my tongue. I could easily tell her how she's being overdramatic, and that if she's so worried about things being weird, then maybe_ I_ shouldn't be here, because what she doesn't know is that her boyfriend confessed to me over winter break that he still thinks about me sometimes. But like I said, that part of me really is in the past, and it's better that way. And I'm not here to start trouble.

So instead I simply apologize. "I'm sorry. I invited him. When I saw him at the bakery. So if it makes you feel better, I think he's coming because of me."

Okay, so maybe I don't mind starting a_ little_ bit of trouble. Because I know full well that won't actually make Madge feel any better. And when Madge starts to back pedal, proclaiming she's _so relieved_, I cut her off, asking if the keg's been tapped yet.

* * *

><p>By ten thirty, Gale's basement is full of old friends. And I'm standing in a semi-circle with Delly Cartwright and Leevy Johnson drinking keg beer and making small talk. We're discussing how much fun Delly's sorority at Panem State is when, seemingly out of the blue, Delly grabs my wrist, startling me.<p>

"Don't look now but Peeta Mellark is totally staring at you."

Leave it to Delly Cartwright to take us right back to the cafeteria of D12 High.

I furrow my brow, sloshing back a gulp of the cheap draft beer.

Leevy wrinkles her nose, and I watch her eyes take in Peeta from where he must be standing somewhere behind me. "Should she care? He's thirty pounds overweight and he's barely friends with anyone anymore." Then she sighs. "I miss his arms."

Delly rolls her eyes at Leevy. "Whatever. I'd still hit it." She giggles at herself, an hour and a half of alcohol consumption probably beginning to have its effects on her. I can't help but laugh lightly at her straightforwardness.

"Although," Leevy says, with a mischievous smile as she pushes her long straight dark hair over her shoulder and continues to stare past me, "Delly's right. He _is_ pretty much eye fucking you right now."

I turn over my shoulder to glance at Peeta, who's standing near the keg with Thom. His eyes flit away from me as soon as I do.

_Huh. _I feel a heat in my cheeks that I want to attribute to the beer, but I know better, because I'm just tipsy enough to inwardly admit that I'd hit it too. The flush on my face must be evident, because Leevy laughs at me.

"You know what? Go for it, Katniss. I always thought you two had a thing for one another in high school anyway. And if anyone in this room could use a pity fuck, it's Peeta."

"Leevy!" Delly hisses, hitting her in the in the arm with the back of her hand. But Leevy just grins as I cringe.

It's not like that. It wouldn't be a _pity fuck_. Wait, what am I even saying? It's not going to be _any_ kind of fuck. I drain the rest of my cup, figuring the beer can only help to numb my thoughts and cool the weird warmth I feel tugging at my core. But now I can't look either one of them in the eye.

"You're both out of your minds," I scoff. Do they think I went way to college and suddenly got promiscuous or something? It's not like I have a reputation for random hook ups. Although I suppose Peeta Mellark isn't exactly random. Then I stare into my empty cup and sigh. "I'm going to get a beer, and it's because I need more beer, okay?"

I scowl when the two of them give me matching smirks. It's not my fault that Peeta just so happens to be standing by the only source of alcohol in this place.

"Hey," I say as I approach the keg that Peeta's currently pumping. He looks at me, tilting his cup as he begins to fill it up.

"Hey, Katniss. How's it going?"

_Weirdly. It's going weirdly because people think we should hook up._

"Okay," I say, tugging at my sweater, pulling the hem over my jeans.

"You need a beer?" he asks. His eyes are even bluer than I remember them being.

"Yes," I nod. "Please."

Peeta smiles, the apples of his cheeks rounding with his grin. He finishes filling his drink and holds the tap out to me. I step next to him, holding my cup out as he refills my drink too. He smells sweet, a soft inherent bakery smell of cinnamon and something I can't place, but it kind of makes my stomach rumble. He's dressed nicely in a pale blue button up shirt and jeans, and I try not to notice how some of the buttons at his midsection look like they're struggling to stay closed. But at the same time, it sort of infatuates me.

Then, my face ears and cheeks feeling insanely hot, I follow Peeta's sightline to the couch on the opposite end of the room where Gale and Madge are busy getting drunk and being flirty.

"They're the new _it_ couple," he says wryly when he realizes I'm looking at what he's looking at. I pull my cup back after Peeta's done topping it off, and I swirl my index finger into the light layer of foam before taking a small sip.

"Does it bother you?" I ask, studying his face.

He chuckles, looking back to me. "Nope. Does it bother you?"

I shake my head. "Not at all."

I don't know what else to say, because it's an awkward topic and all I can really think is that it seems like a lot of shit has gone wrong for Peeta Mellark in the last year or so. And yet, here he is, still smiling at me. I shift my weight nervously. "Do you, um, want cake? I might get some cake," I muse absently, trying to fill up the air between us.

"Katniss," he snorts, swigging his beer before staring at me with very deliberate, very blue eyes. "I made the cake. I eat enough cake. I don't want cake."

Maybe it's the alcohol that emboldens me. But right now, I also feel pretty drunk just on Peeta's presence. "So what _do_ you want then?"

His mouth falls open just slightly, and he tilts his head, considering me. "I, uh, think that's a dangerous question," he finally says with a pointed look and another sip of his beer.

I chew my bottom lip in thought, watching his eyes train on my mouth. "Why?"

Peeta doesn't get the chance to answer me because out of nowhere, Gale appears next to me, bear-hugging me and telling me he's _so glad I came home for his birthday!_ And I try to figure out if Peeta looks relieved or not when he doesn't have to respond to my question as Gale proclaims the need for us to join the flip cup table.

* * *

><p>I don't really speak to Peeta again until we've been at The Hob for a while, and it's crowded, and hot, and everyone's done their requisite shots with Gale. The Hob is the kind of bar that will put big X's on your hands if you're underage but not really care if you drink the beer your legal friends bought you, so it really is the perfect place to go with Gale, since he's one of the first to turn 21. And after attempting to dance to a few loud, thumping songs on the dance floor with Delly and Madge and Leevy, I decide I'd rather steal the open bar stool at the small table we've managed to snag in the corner. Peeta's there by himself, holding down the table of drinks and coats, sipping what looks like a rum and coke from the glass rather than the straw. I sigh when I sit down, officially drunk enough to feel comfortable nudging him and gesturing for the ice water in front of him. Peeta smiles, pushing the glass toward me so I can take a healthy gulp, and his eyes are lazy but bright as they watch me.<p>

"Slow down or you'll choke," he teases as I drink half the glass. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand when I finish, shrugging. "I ran six miles this morning. Don't want to get a cramp."

I don't have time to feel stupid for sounding like I'm bragging, because Peeta raises an eyebrow. "Are you still the fastest girl on the track?"

I adjust myself on the stool to face him, and I rest an elbow on the table top for balance, inadvertently leaning into him. "Sometimes."

Peeta nods in approval. And I absently think I could get lost in his eyes. And that I wish I could push the hair that's fallen on his forehead back, slightly slick with sweat from the heat. But that's entirely inappropriate.

"Do you miss it?" I blurt out, reaching for my beer. "Wrestling, I mean?"

Peeta chuckles at me, the laugh rippling through his body. "Yeah. Of course." Then his shoulders sort of slump, and I see the hard swallow he takes travel down his throat. He looks back to me and smiles ruefully. "Just not as much as I miss other things, you know?"

_Oh._ _Oh no._ Of course. Who cares about wrestling? It's the least of his worries these days.

"I'm sorry," I breathe, shaking my head, my face so hot it must be fire red.

"Hey," he says softly, and I can barely make out his voice over the echoing thumps of the music coming from the dance floor. "It's okay. I figure if anyone knows what it's like, it's you."

His words, and his sad smile coax me out of my embarrassment. And I smile sadly too. "So, how'd you end up being the one to take over the bakery?

Peeta shrugs his shoulders, like the answer's obvious. "I wanted to."

And that makes sense, even if I'm not thinking very clearly right now. Of course Peeta wanted to be the baker and carry on the family business. The little I know about his older brothers leaves me to believe they've gone off to live their own lives, probably as quickly, and as far away, as possible. But Peeta had always been the type of guy who seemed inherently reliable. The popular jock at the party who wouldn't drink so he could drive everyone home. The rare student who actually paid attention in class and would answer the teacher's questions thoughtfully. And he was the kind of person who smiled at not only his friends, but almost anyone who gave him a passing glance in the hallways too.

A good guy.

A guy who gave up his scholarship and wrestling career to come home and run his father's bakery. Who goes to school at the community college in the evenings on top of it. And probably doesn't get to enjoy being twenty and careless and reckless nearly as much as he should.

A really good guy.

A guy whose eyes are still somehow crystal blue despite their slight haze. And a guy who, right here, right now, I can't help but want to kiss. To just press myself up against him and feel him—his sturdiness, his softness, his warmth. I let the alcohol give me unprecedented courage as I lean in even closer to him, only dropping my eyes from his when he sucks in a sharp breath. He rests his palm on my knee, and begins to draw a pattern on my thigh with his finger.

"You know what else I've missed?" He asks, staring at his finger as it traces small, slow figure eights.

"What?" I whisper, my breathing shallow at his proximity.

"Being around you."

And suddenly, I'm putting my hand over his, stilling his movements on my leg. His eyes blink up to mine, and everything feels like it stands still around us.

"Let's go," I tell him simply.

Peeta's mouth turns into a crooked, intrigued smile. "Go where?" I think he's messing with me, or maybe testing me, because his eyebrow quirks and his fingers slip through mine, but I answer him anyway.

"Back. Let's go back."

"Won't you be missed?"

Not that I care if I am, but one look over Peeta's shoulder towards the bar where Gale's currently alternating between sucking down shots and sucking on Madge's face answers his question for me.

I shake my head, and then repeat myself. "Let's go."

I don't think I've ever seen someone shrug his coat on so fast.

* * *

><p>The perk of being Gale's best friend who drove two hours to be at his party is that I received dibs on the guest bedroom. And I lead Peeta straight to it after we hail a taxi and let ourselves in using the key Madge told everyone she left in the mailbox just in case people got separated tonight.<p>

Peeta hesitates behind me once I reach the door. "Katniss. What are we doing?"

I spin around, dizzied as much by the movement as I am his presence. He still smells faintly like cinnamon and bread, despite an hour at the crowded bar. And when I tilt my chin up to his, I'm not entirely sure what we're doing myself.

It's a soft, short kiss—really just a peck on the corner of Peeta's mouth. But it's enough to urge him to follow me into the bedroom. And on the other side of the door, it's like Peeta comes to life.

His mouth slants over mine, capturing my bottom lip between his slowly. I kick the door closed behind us, sighing into his kiss because even though it's only been a few hours since I knew I wanted him, it feels like a long time coming. And, fueled by the alcohol coursing through my veins and the fogginess in my head that makes me only able to concentrate on how good this feels, I press myself flush up against him. His arms encircle me, and he feels safe. And I need more. I dig my hands into the soft flesh of his back, drawing him even closer. He grunts against my mouth, rocking further into me, and then everything feels like I'm on fire.

I throw my arms around his neck, his lips working mine hungrily, his hands skimming my waist, feeling hot against my bare skin as they push my sweater up my abdomen. I feel ridiculously small in Peeta's arms, and my stick straight figure is nothing to be proud of, but the way he stares when my sweater hits the floor almost makes me think otherwise.

I tear into his shirt, unbuttoning it as quickly as I can, but my fingers are less than nimble and threading the buttons through the slits proves difficult. I lose my patience when I feel Peeta's erection pressed against my thigh, and he laughs when I tug too hard at the last of the buttons, causing a couple of them to pop off.

As he shrugs the shirt off his arms, leaving him in just an undershirt, I run my hands along his chest, tracing them along the shape of his body, enjoying his soft sturdiness. I buck my hips against his, and Peeta lets out a curse under his breath, moving his hands from the small of my back to the zipper of my jeans.

His eyes lock with mine when my hands brush against his, helping to push the denim down over my hips. And Peeta holds his breath as I step out of them, leaving me in only my bra and underwear. I'm secretly glad I had the foresight to wear the only matching set I own, black and lacy and not even purchased by me but by Johanna, my track teammate, mostly as a gag gift for my birthday last May.

Peeta swallows thickly, rubbing his thumb against my hipbone, where the lace of my underwear meets skin. "I want to make you feel good," he murmurs, leaning back into me, kissing me as he gently guides me to the end of the bed until the backs of my knees bump against it. I fall against the bed with a soft thud, and I want so badly to pull him down on top of me and feel the full weight of him pinning me there, but Peeta has other ideas.

He moves himself between my legs, kneeling on the floor and kissing the soft skin of my lower abdomen as he pushes my underwear down my legs slowly, letting gravity help them to the ground. And I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale sharply as his fingers begin to play.

"You're already wet," he breathes, rubbing two fingers back and forth over me, breaking his touch momentarily to reposition my legs over his shoulders. When his hand returns, I arch into it and let out a low moan, my body already thrumming from just the simple movement. But Peeta grasps at my hip, stilling me. My eyes fly open at the purpose he seems to use as he does it. His own eyes have turned a deep, dark blue, and I watch him lick his lips before he disappears between my legs.

He's so diligent. So thorough. His tongue is hot against my flesh, and it's teasing too. Like he knows exactly what to do and how to get me off quickly. Except he wants nothing to be quick. He wants to savor me. _Devour_ me. I can feel his grin as I squirm beneath it. My hands reach for his hair, holding on to him as if it will help me hold on to my sanity. Because the way he flicks his tongue over my clit, intermeshed with swirling, hungry licks, I'm so close to losing it. But when my hips buck involuntarily against his mouth and I embarrassingly whimper his name, Peeta pulls back, coming up for air.

His eyes meet mine as he breathes against my inner thigh. "You're gorgeous."

I can only manage another moan in response as Peeta's tongue delves back into me with a newfound determination and my body begins to surge. He makes me come so hard my legs shake, my heels banging against his shoulder blades. I feel like I'm floating and drowning all at once. It's an addictive, insatiable feeling, and something I've never felt before. At least not quite like this.

"Did that feel good?" he asks after lapping my wetness. It's a proud question, because the look in Peeta's eye knows he's turned me into a mess. I answer him anyway with a grateful nod, taking a moment to recover from what he's just done. He starts to stand, and I greedily reach for him, wanting even more than his tongue. I curl my hands into the material of his undershirt, tugging at it until he climbs up on the bed with me. I slide back to make room for him, needing him on top of me, needing to feel his skin against mine. Needing to feel him inside of me.

And needing to make him feel good too.

I push his shirt up past his chest and over his head, the flesh of his stomach brushing against mine as he braces himself over me, freeing himself of his pants. And I pull his lips to mine to kiss him as I reach for his length. He feels hot and hard in my hand as I stroke him, using the moisture from his tip for lubrication. Peeta moans into my mouth, rolling his hips into mine at my touch.

"Peeta," I gasp, and he stills above me. "Do you…do you have a…?" I'm terrible because while I can let Peeta Mellark's tongue spend fifteen minutes circling my clit, I can't even say the word _condom_ out loud. But Peeta gets what I'm saying anyway, and reaches for the nightstand drawer next to the bed. He smirks when he finds what we're looking for.

He rolls it on under my watchful, appreciative gaze, his fingers slightly clumsy with what's probably nerves. I run my hands lightly along his chest, down his sides, liking every touch of him he'll let me have.

When Peeta leans down to perch above me, searching my eyes, it's like he's checking to make sure I'm real more than making sure it's okay that we're really doing this. He pushes into me tentatively, and the sensation, combined with the soft warmth of his body and the earnest appreciation I read on his face makes me feel drunker than any alcohol I've consumed tonight.

I have to adjust to him and his slow thrusts, each one pushing a little deeper, a little harder than the last. But it doesn't take long. And soon we're a mess of tangled limbs, our pace becoming erratic and desperate and even a little sloppy—the product of being drunk as well as the white hot need I see behind the lids of my eyes.

I can't pinpoint one particular thing about him, because it feels like Peeta just somehow magically knows what buttons to push inside of me. But all of it—his mouth on my neck, my hands in his hair damp with sweat, the soft cushion of his stomach pushing against mine, and the way he makes me feel so full—sends me over the edge again. It's unfair really, how easily I come for the second time, while Peeta still has to work for his release. Though judging by the way he swallows my cries with his lips, he doesn't seem to mind.

"I want to make you come forever," he breathes into my shoulder, as the last waves of my orgasm pass.

"I just want to make you come," I tease, arching up into him pointedly and peppering his neck with wet kisses. I feel the vibration of his hoarse chuckle escaping his throat.

"You feel unbelievable. I'm trying to make this last as long as possible."

_Oh._

He hangs on for a while, but _as long as possible_ comes sooner than later. And when he comes, I relish the way Peeta's body shudders, his eyes closed, his lips parted, jerking into me with short, controlled movements.

He collapses next to me on the bed with an exhausted sigh, and I roll my neck to watch him, the sheen of sweat still visible on his brow, the glow of his cheeks making me smile. He takes my hand in his, resting them on his chest, which heaves as he catches his breath.

"Did that feel good?" I ask coyly.

"Katniss," he murmurs, his eyes still closed and sounding like he's already fading into sleep. "I haven't felt this good in a long time."

* * *

><p>It's too early the next morning when I wake to Peeta stirring beside me. I'm disoriented for a moment, as I get my bearings, my head pounding and my thoughts jumbled as I peek out through one eye to see Peeta getting dressed. It's still dark outside, and it's not even 6 AM yet. We've only been asleep for a few hours, and we'd passed out before anyone else made their way back from The Hob. I have no idea if anyone suspects anything happened between us, though I figure I'm probably going to wake up to a lot of questions. It's way too soon to figure out how I'll answer them.<p>

"I have to go," he tells me guiltily when he notices I'm awake, throwing on his shirt. I wince at the just the idea of getting out of bed right now. A baker's hours seem so cruel. But I nod against my pillow, not exactly in any position to convince him to stay. Then I watch him wordlessly as he finishes dressing, sitting on the end of the bed to put on his shoes. "When do you go back to school?" he asks, his back to me.

"This afternoon," I mumble, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand. I push myself up on an elbow, waiting for him to turn back to me.

"I figured," he says, smiling ruefully. "So. I'll see you…around?"

To be honest, I don't know if he will. Not that I wouldn't like to. But what does one drunken night with Peeta Mellark really mean when he lives back home and I still have two and half years of school left? And an upcoming track season that means I won't even be able to visit until school lets out?

"I hope so," I answer honestly. And he turns, watching me for a beat before rising and walking over to my side of the bed. He kisses the top of my forehead, and I close my eyes at the light brush of his lips.

"I hope so too."

* * *

><p>I don't see him again until late spring, when I'm home for the summer, after I've spent more than a few nights over the last three months thinking about him. I even find an excuse to go to the bakery on my first day back, but my phony need for a dozen cinnamon rolls doesn't hold up when Rory Hawthorne's behind the counter instead of Peeta.<p>

"Hey Katniss," he says with a smile, looking like he's been expecting me.

"Hey," I say back, attempting to scan the place for any signs of Peeta without letting on that's what I'm doing.

"He just ran out, but he should be back soon," Rory explains, apparently more in the know of what's going on than I am. "Want me to get you something while you wait?"

I don't know what else to do now, so I order one cinnamon roll instead of twelve, and climb up on a stool at the counter. I pick at it as I make small talk with Rory in between him serving a few straggling customers.

"You know, I might just come back later," I say after ten minutes of waiting begins to get to me.

"I think you should probably stay."

I spin around at his voice, coming from the back door, the smile playing on my lips turning into a gape at the sight of him. He's dressed in a t-shirt and athletic shorts, and he wipes beads of sweat from his forehead with an amused look at my reaction.

He has to be twenty pounds lighter—still broad with his stocky build, but there's only a little bit of healthy softness left to him. This whole time, he hadn't bothered to mention that he's been losing weight. And after all the text messages and phone calls and emails, I know that I like Peeta regardless of how he looks, but I don't know, he just seems inherently more like himself like this.

"Someone inspired me to start running," he says with a grin when I still haven't been able to speak. Then he kisses me on the cheek before sliding onto the stool next to me. "Rory's been holding down the fort for me in the afternoons," he explains. "You look great by the way."

I laugh, shaking my head at his compliment, turning into him. "You look so good. I can't believe you didn't say anything."

"It's not that big a deal," he insists. Then he makes a face when he notices the cinnamon roll in front of me. "Why are you eating that?"

I give him a funny look, wondering if he's suddenly become the pastry police in his newfound health. He turns to Rory. "Will you go get that thing for me please?"

"Sure," Rory agrees with a nod.

"I'm glad you're home," he says softly when Rory retreats into the kitchen.

"Me too," I say, smiling at him.

Then Peeta takes the plate with the cinnamon roll away from me, swiping at it to lick a bite of icing off his finger. "We've got a lot of catching up to do," he warns playfully, leaning in and kissing me softly.

"I've missed you," I sigh against his lips. Peeta grins, and I kiss him again quickly, before pulling back, noting Rory returning out of the corner of my eye.

"Happy birthday, by the way," he tells me as Rory approaches with a small cake, complete with candles. My birthday was actually two days ago, but Peeta's been talking about celebrating it for a month now. I have no idea what he has planned.

But apparently we're starting with cake.


End file.
